Alpha and I uttered not a word, not even a gasp, except the grunt he gave at the effort of kicking in the door. We moved around the corpses, who stared up at us through melted eyes, reached out to us with charred and twisted limbs. Some lay alone. Others were fused together, so here a corpse which seemed to have too many limbs, there a pair in apparent embrace. Most of all I remember the hands, by which I tried for a short while to identify Mr Bangura, searching for his ring. Brittle, blackened sticks reaching out. For what? Curled claws, trying to hold on. To what? To life itself, I can only imagine.
So you see, on that day I believed I knew what was coming. I sat outside on my old stool and positioned myself where I could best see the road. I settled down to wait. Whatever was out there was on its way. On its way to us.
Adama sat next to me, I watched her hands as she unpicked the frayed edge of a basket and prepared to repair it. I saw how her usually nimble fingers stumbled over the repair, weaving and unpicking the same few inches over and over. At that moment she turned her unblinking gaze up at me.
‘Let me fetch you something to eat.’ She was concerned for me, as I was for her. Each one pretending for the other’s benefit. I had no appetite, my mouth was dry as sand.
‘Yes, please. I’m a little hungry.’
As she rose she pressed the heel of her hand into the small of her back and stood there for a moment. I watched her cross the yard and bend over the cooking pots. For a while she remained doubled over. When she straightened again I saw her features tremble with pain.
Dear God, I said to myself. Not now.
She saw me watching and tried to force her lips into a smile. ‘Another false alarm.’
‘With your mother it was just the same,’
We sat and waited, the cooling feast spread out in front of us. We saw nobody. No visitor come to pay respects, no neighbour to exchange the news of the day. Not even a single passer-by.
In the last part of the afternoon I sat up suddenly, cocked my head and listened. I could hear dogs barking. Not the snarling, yelping of a scrap. Nor the howling call and answer that went on through the night. Rather a relentless, monotonous barking that started and did not stop. I sat listening while I worked out where in the town it was coming from, tracing its progression through the streets towards us.
I stood up and went, quickly as I could manage, into the house, unlocked the storeroom and gathered up a few pieces of smoked fish, some dried cassava. I poured two cups of rice into a handkerchief and knotted it. I found a packet of matches, a little money and a tin cup, tied them all up in a lappa. By the time I had finished I was exhausted.
I thrust the bundle into Adama’s hands. I told her what she must do. She shook her head: ‘No!’ she said. The baby might be on its way, I told her. I knew the pains had been coming all afternoon. I had seen her turn away from me every time it happened. The poor child began to cry, and, Oh, how I wanted to cry too, to clutch her and weep, for this wasn’t how we had imagined it would be when she came home for the birth. Instead I reached out and gave her shoulder a shake. In the distance came the sound of gunfire. Somebody ran past in the street shouting a warning. I still had my hand on her shoulder, now I pushed her as hard as I could towards the door, telling her to find the neighbours and join them.
She went. She did as she was told. I said I would follow as soon as I could. Maybe the baby would come today, maybe it would come tonight. Maybe it would come next week. But it would come. I could only pray I would be with her when it happened. I kept sight of her as she walked through the banana groves. My ears followed her progress long after she was no longer visible. For several minutes I stood and listened to the clicking of her fingers fading as she walked into the arms of the forest. Only then did I turn to go inside.
When my mother died she left me her possessions, among them the great chest in which she once stored her belongings. It was empty now. I went over to it, dragging my bad foot along the floor. I opened the lid, laid my stick inside. With all the strength left in my one good arm, I hoisted myself up on to the edge. I balanced there for a moment, then I leaned forward and let myself topple in. I lay there, a little winded. Then I reached up and pulled the lid down over me. I curled up in the darkness and went on waiting.
I could hear nothing save a few muffled sounds. And all I could see was the narrow beam of light that came from the space between the lid and the box. For the first time I began to feel afraid. For a while I did nothing, just listened to the sound of my own breathing. In the closed space my breaths seemed raucous, as though they had transformed into vapours, clamorous with life, swirling around, searching for a way out.
I tried to make myself comfortable. I should have put down some cloths or sacking to line the inside. Too late now. I was lying on top of my stick and I squirmed until I managed to ease it out from under me. I turned on to my back and lay there with my knees bent. The temperature inside the box was rising, it would soon be as hot as a furnace. I loosened my clothing as best I could. I pulled off my head-wrap, bunched it up and put it under my head as a makeshift pillow. The effort made me thirsty, but I had no water. I didn’t dare risk climbing back out, I would have to manage without.
After a bit I began to explore my surroundings. This had been my favourite hiding place when I was a child. I’d lie on top of my mother’s belongings, waiting for someone to come and find me, as scared of being discovered as of not being found at all. When the lid finally opened above me, I screamed and screamed. Still, I went back, over and over, to hide in the same place. I didn’t think anyone would imagine I would be so stupid as to choose such an obvious place. My double bluff never worked. I prayed it would work this time.
I ran my fingertips around the sides of the box. It was well made, solid and strong. We were more or less the same age, and yet I was the one who’d begun to sag and creak. The box on the other hand had only grown more handsome with the years: the richness of the patina, the worn-smooth surface. I had become so used to it over the years, I’d stopped seeing it, but it was a very elegant box.
I came across a knot in the wood and explored it with my fingers. It was grainy, at odds with the feel of the rest. I scratched it with my fingernail and felt it crumble. I reached up and took a pin from my hair and began to dig at the place. The knot wasn’t wood at all, but some sort of plaster, probably where the carpenter had plugged the place where a knot had fallen through. I scratched away like a mouse until I had made myself a spyhole. It was a little high, I had to push myself up on one elbow, but it was better than nothing.
There was more light now, a circular beam coming in through the spy hole. I followed the beam to the other side of the box where it revealed a series of markings: vertical cuts, where somebody had scored the wood with a knife. Two rows of ten, one above, one below. A carpenter’s trademark? Perhaps the box had been made using wood from something else. I ran my thumbnail across the rows, backwards and forwards, making a vibrating sound like a musical instrument.
Now I remembered. As a young girl, watching my mother. Every year, on the day we ate the first rice of the new harvest, going to her room where the great chest stood. With a sharp knife she would score the wood in the same place every year. Every year for ten years. Ten anniversaries. Ten birthdays. Asana and Alusani. Then Alusani died and stole her happiness to take with him back to the other world.